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One Poem  

Dave Harrity

Blocks

Leaves & dull blue light of the corner florist.

The bus stop is empty, beaded with water.

I have three feathers in my hand—
two from the dugout, one by first base.

The leaves will be born again next year.

My hands around the skull, bile in my palm.
My boy in my arms like a broken toy boat.

A month later, I walk him around the block
again & again so he’ll stay asleep.

I have a desire that no one should know me,
but I cannot stop talking.

Another night sky, another circuit, endless cloud.

Feathers in a tee-ball trophy cup on his dresser.

The anger in my heart at nothing I can name.

After hard rain, a felled elm branch hacked into the ground.

When he wakes, he crawls into my lap & we sit
without a word on the couch.

Someday he will be too old to be held. We will
go back to our beds.